


never let me go, never let me go

by AlysanneBlackwood



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (I hope it's tenderness), As they deserve to, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Sad men kiss and cuddle and get a good night's sleep, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 20:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21464308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlysanneBlackwood/pseuds/AlysanneBlackwood
Summary: "But I’m hungry.  I’m hungry and I want to live.The words are so recently spoken, and yet they echo in his head like a phrase from a half-forgotten poem.  Something about them is so achingly, simply human-like, yet so full of loathing for the self; he knows that feeling, if not those exact words.  They had grabbed him, and he had not fought as hard as he could have, he had not shouted for someone to help him as loud as he should have.  He had gone with them because, despite knowing that he will die no matter who he is with now, they would have shot him otherwise.  And he wants to live.  An overwhelming part of him still wants to live."
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lt George Hodgson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	never let me go, never let me go

**Author's Note:**

> I was rewatching episode nine and was thinking about how in the mutiny, Goodsir and Hodgson are reluctant to be there or don't want to be (Goodsir is kidnapped, Hodgson joins since they find him when he's lost). Then, Goodsir agrees to butcher Gibson's body when he hears Des Voeux threaten Hodgson outside his tent. He's also the only one who hears Hodgson talk about his aunts, and Hodgson seems to deliberately come to his tent. I wrote this an alternate ending to the last scene mentioned; rather than Hodgson simply leaving, as he does, what if Goodsir tried to talk to him, and they find some much-needed solace in each other?
> 
> The title is from "Never Let Me Go" by Florence and the Machine.

_ But I’m hungry. I’m hungry and I want to live. _

The words are so recently spoken, and yet they echo in his head like a phrase from a half-forgotten poem. Something about them is so achingly, simply human-like, yet so full of loathing for the self; he knows that feeling, if not those exact words. They had grabbed him, and he had not fought as hard as he could have, he had not shouted for someone to help him as loud as he should have. He had gone with them because, despite knowing that he will die no matter who he is with now, they would have shot him otherwise. And he wants to live. An overwhelming part of him still wants to live.

He hears the softest creak as Hodgson rises. He sits up. “Lieutenant?” The crunch of rocks underfoot as Hodgson goes to leave. He tries again. “George?” The name is strange on his tongue, but they are in the same circumstances now, and the time for formalities has passed. 

The footsteps cease. “Yes?”

“I heard.”

“Oh.” He sits up and Hodgson -- _ George _\-- looks at the ground. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No.” Harry stands, crossing the tent in a few steps to stand beside him. “I understand. What you said about being hungry. I understand.” He doesn’t know if this what George wants, or if he only wanted someone to listen, but new tears well up in George’s eyes and he shudders.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with tears. “I shouldn’t be… I should be more like you, Doctor. You’re not… you’re not weak.” The last word is spat, full of anger, and Harry shakes his head.

“I still butchered Mr Gibson.”

“To keep them from hurting me. I heard you.” George looks down again. “Thank you.” _ You’re welcome, _ Harry nearly says, before he does not know what to say at all. _ You’re welcome _does not seem right to say here. There is too much weight to the thanks for it. There is a sudden, light pressure on his arm; he looks over to see George’s hand resting there, and the last time anyone touched him like this was Silna, who knows how long ago now. He shifts his weight, feels himself leaning into the hand. It moves upwards, landing on his face, stroking his cheek with the thumb. The other hand on the other side of his face, now, and he reaches out, pulling him closer. George steps towards him with a soft sob, his frame trembling; they rest against each other, the camp dark and, for once, silent around them. Harry folds him in his arms, strokes his hair, presses his forehead against George’s, whose hands fall to grasp him fast, so tightly he feels the breath taken from him. But George is warm. In spite of this frozen place he is still a little warm, a warmth that brings tears to Harry’s eyes. Twice in that night. Mr Collins. Silna. Gone now, the both of them.

“Do you mind,” George whispers, “if I stay here tonight? Pilkington talks in his sleep.” Harry nods; he does not need that reason or any at all to let him stay, he knows, not when he needs this as much as George does. Reluctantly they let go of each other, only to nestle back together for warmth and room on Harry’s pallet. Now George draws him in, and Harry stifles a cry of his own. To be held like this, to be _ loved _ like this (the word suddenly crosses his mind clearer than Dreel Burn on a cloudless day, and with it comes both certainty and confusion) is suddenly the dearest, most precious thing in the world, and he clings to George as a child might to its mother: desperate, as if to let him go would completely unmoor the both of them. _ It would, _ he realises. _ Oh, God, it would. _

George brushes Harry’s hair back from his forehead; in its place his mouth presses, soft and hesitant in its speed. When he draws back Harry cups his cheek and, before he has time to think of it, they are close enough to tell the colours of each other’s eyes, though the tent is near to pitch-black. Harry leans inward and George meets him in a kiss made rough by lips chapped with cold and worry. They break apart after a few seconds pass and then come back together, this time as long as they can, gentle, yielding to each other’s movements, before needing to catch their breaths. Harry gazes at him afterwards, wants to smile, wants to reassure George that whatever this is between them is alright, but finds he is too tired for even that. George closes his eyes and leans his head on Harry’s shoulder, and soon his breathing is steady in sleep. _ Dreaming of choirs and angels, perhaps, _Harry thinks, letting the rise and fall of George’s chest guide him towards his own rest. 

And despite the past day, with George wrapped around him, he feels safe enough to finally fall into a proper sleep, unchecked by thoughts of imminent, slow ends.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Dreel Burn is a stream that runs through Anstruther, the town in Fife where the real Harry Goodsir was from.  
2\. Harry refers to Silna by her real name because I like to think she told him at some point. Lord knows he's the only one on those ships decent enough to her most of the time to deserve to know it.


End file.
